What date shall I publish? Now or in the past?

My first car was a 1957 Volkswagen Type II, with every possible window, safari split-windsheild, a sun roof, skylights, chrome rails inside the back corner windows intact, in pristine condition. It had been living in the desert near Tucson, sandblasted by desert winds, and rats had completely stripped the upholstery and horsehair down to the metal frame and springs. The interior paneling was pretty much gone, and shortly before I took possession, some kids had ridden through the property on motorbikes and broken half the windows. I really learned HOW to drive in this van, and got my first license at 23.

The interior ceiling had been painted for the previous owners by my cartoonist boyfriend, a cobalt sky of stars and planets and various underground comic characters of the time (1973). Those friends had some connections to, or knew of, local resources where I got nearly everything repaired and replaced for a pittance. I had the bench seat reupholstered with gray “Cadillac” upholstery for $35. I had all the broken windows (thankfully, not the windshield or the skylights) transferred from another van for $45. I found a beautiful English wool Persian-style carpet on the street, and used it to replace the interior paneling.

It was a miraculous thing. The whole creature was a frankenstein: the chassis of a 1969 van that had been rolled while navigating a sharp curve, a 1971 engine, something about 1966 from the front end. The body was found in a field, I don’t know what happened to the undercarriage that was left behind when it was transported onto this frame.

My friends had some shady shade-tree mechanics work on the engine, and it never was right. Apparently the top end was not a match. I spent the spring of 1974 on unemployment and foodstamps, planning for a trip to California. My recently reunited boyfriend and I were leaving Arizona after a 3-year residence for the beautiful, affordable Bay Area, and some friends we had there.

Shortly before our departure he was in an automobile accident in a 1951 Chevrolet pickup- and was suddenly afraid to ride in my van, where there was 1/4″ of sheet metal between you and oncoming traffic. At the last minute, with the van still in the repair “shop”, he suddenly bailed, bought a plane ticket and left me, my cat, and everything I owned, in the little converted garage of a house I had already given notice on.

I spent the next three weeks parked at my friends’ adobe house beyond the edge of town. It was the best time of my life. I had my van, my cat, a bed, books, a little stove, tea, a few clothes, and access to a kitchen and indoor plumbing. There was a view of mountains, the wide desert and distant lights of town, a little vegetable garden, saguaro cactus, sagebrush, ocotillos, bats, owls, peccaries, rabbits, quail: a wildlife refuge far from the impending urban development on the horizon. I left the windows open, and would wake up to birds flitting in and out of the cab, avoiding my cat as she prowled the area.

That van never had a name. I still try to make one up. It had an AM radio, and I installed a cassette tape deck and small tuner and speakers. When it was time to go, I left in the cool of the night and listened to Taj Mahal all the way to California. We would stop on the side of the road for a nap, I would leave the windows open and my cat would come when I called. Somewhere on the road she climbed to the open sunroof and jumped ship at 65 MPH. I never went back to find her.

I pulled into Redondo Beach on the morning of July 4th, and spent the day with my brother and his not-that-soon-to-be wife. We went to see the fireworks, and I fell asleep in the car.

In Oakland I parked and lived in a driveway on Hillegass Avenue where the boyfriend had landed, until we found an apartment in Berkeley, with parking in the back. I kept the van for a while, and kept it up, but the engine was never right, and he talked me into selling it to a friend for a pittance. Said friend painted it yellow. I later heard that it broke down and was abandoned on the road, then sold for $100. That broke me.

We got a new kitten, made some friends, learned to cook. I got a bicycle, went to college, installed an amazing french intensive garden, I’ll come back with that photo– we worked in restaurants, went to see bands and danced at ashkenaz. We fought, my creative spirit stalled, I languished, rudderless. One day he threw a brass ashtray at my head that left an imprint on the wall, and I moved out.

I wish I had stayed in Tucson. It was magical.

But then, I wish I had stayed in Redondo Beach.

September 23, 2024

I’m planning on skittering up the coast again, thinking time is running out, how many trips do I have in me, how many times can I do this? My health has been a little sketchy lately. I had a very bad reaction to a polenta overdose shortly after the last trip, and it took me almost a week to recover. I am removing grains from my diet for now, to see if that is the trigger.

In between trips to Oregon I have been copying art, grabbing screenshots from Youtube videos. I’m currently fond of a so-generous artist named Helen Wells, who does vivid, stylized trees and vses of flowers on large paper and on panels. Copying these is transfixing, fills pages in my very large 11×14″ sketchbook, two at a time, often in the space of a day. I’m using watercolors, caran d’ache water soluble crayons, inks, whatever. The brushwork and color mixing are so satisfying. I have released my sense of dismay that I am not doing anything original–it’s an atelier, it’s a salon, I am copying art I enjoy, oh well. It’s hella fun.

August 2024

I’m just back from a near-week in a far place, I am ready to go again. A stack of paintings, a sense of freedom, practice, stability, direction . . . well-fed, and wonderful friends I may never see again.

On the first, very hot day we did a nature walk-and-talk through the red fir/mixed conifer forest, stopping to check out the name tags on many alpine plants. I was mildly alarmed by a huge pyrocumulus cloud off to the north, which turned out to be above the nearby Gold Complex fire, ignited by lightening. On day two we woke up to dense smoke, and N95 masks were handed out at breakfast. Several people left camp; it was pretty unnerving. News was hard to come by, not only because we were off grid, but the enormous Park Fire, still raging as I write, was just taking off. No problem for us, though, because we headed out to hike to a nearby lake, Sand Pond, to paint, swim, eat lunch, and paint again. On our return the smoke was much abated, and the wind had shifted, though the fire appeared to be 0% contained for the first two days. It was Taco Tuesday, and after I snarfed my meal I went back to the classroom to fill several sheets of paper with washes of ink and color, and then to bed. The moon was orange that night.

The next day we hiked from Gold Lake to Big Bear Lake, to paint, swim, eat lunch, and paint some more. I did a picky version, then after lunch I did some quick studies of the same scene that I like better. A lesson! Study first, then paint. I was worn out from the excitement and tucked in early.

Some evenings we would paint with acrylics, inks, on canvas, with stencils and materials we gathered. Fire was a constant theme, some people did deep, moving studies of the devastation.

Up at Yuba Pass we hiked through a forest decimated by drought and pine bark beetles, so extreme that the campground had been closed due to falling trees. We hiked to the ridge, where high winds and falling limbs had us turn and leave before we had a chance to get settled. The sad sight was cheered by the crops of young and baby trees, hopefully adapting to the severe conditions.

The last day we took a hike to Grassy Lake, and I painted the view from where I sat near a dry creek bed. A side trip took us to beautiful Red Fir Trail, where we saw a pair of Goshawks overhead.

I stayed an extra day, one more night with Westy in the quiet forest. Heading home Saturday morning after some goodbyes, and back into the traffic, with a pile of paintings and some new ideas, I was happy to see my plum tree still full of fruit.

This week I have been back at my sketchbooks, filling pages with owls and birds and copying ideas from screenshots of painters on Youtube. More about that in coming episodes. Also this week I pulled out my flat files and reorganize them: ancient archives, a portfolio of 14×17 photos and large prints, calligraphy, watercolors. It makes sense, for now.

Meanwhile, I’m heading up to the River tomorrow for a couple of days, hope to continue painting there.

July 2024

Planning to head to the mountains for a painting retreat, seeing how many unfinished sketchbooks I can cram into my luggage. How much will I share? I feel like I struggle to be original, I don’t know why. I don’t post images that are basically renditions of other people’s ideas, hence the lag time between postings–yet isn’t that how one learns? Is anything original? I’m just trying to fill pages.

My goal is to paint faster, looser, brighter, louder. I’d rather copy than not paint.

These are my brushstrokes. Sometimes I work from photographs. Maybe the key is to do the same thing over and over until the sense of your own being is the only thing left, like repeating a mantra, saying your own name until it becomes something foreign. I’m just not there yet. I’m still gathering.